


Special Delivery

by bugles



Category: American Ultra
Genre: Amnesia, Brainwashing, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 21:03:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4640133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bugles/pseuds/bugles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years ago, Phoebe Larson takes Asset Mike Howell to a crummy nowhere town to start his crummy nowhere life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Special Delivery

_“Chariot progressive, listen.”_

Asset Howell raises his head. The gravel beneath him digs into his knees, but he knows to kneel. He knows to wait patiently, to breathe calmly, to watch the woman in front of him with the long red-brown hair as she paces back and forth across an empty parking spot marked _Delivery Only_.

He wants to ask questions, but Howell knows to keep his mouth shut. Even if Agent Larson is the only person who doesn’t have a problem with his interruptions, he doesn’t want to start up any bad habits again.

Howell follows her with his eyes instead, blank-faced, and fearless. Agent Larson looks untidy today. She pulls the rubber band from her hair and runs a frustrated hand through the split ends Howell does not remember ever noticing.

“Mike,” She says finally, quiet and pained. “Your name is Mike. From West Virginia. You’re twenty-two years old. You work a shitty job in this shit town and never want to leave it.” Howell continues to stare. She hasn’t asked him a direct question. She seems to realize this belatedly, and angrily pushes away the wind-blown hairs on her delicate face. “You have permission to speak.”  
  
“I remember.”

“Good, great. Okay. That’s the important part. You know what’s going on right now. Fuck if I know.”

Agent Larson reaches into her army coat, pulls out a cigarette and lights it. The motion is as easy as breathing. As easy as all forty-four habits Howell remembers unlearning to make room for something new.

“You’re going to forget everything, soon. Fuck it. Stand up, Mike. Put this on.” At her feet is a duffle bag, and she pushes the edge of it forward with her foot. Her breath makes rings of smoke, but Howell looks away before he can count them.

He pulls on a plaid shirt and a pair of boots. He feels no different.

“This is for the best. This is to protect you, to keep you alive and safe. To give you a new life.” The words sound rehearsed, but Howell doesn’t comment on it. It’s not his place to do that. “To—to – _fuck,_ Mike. I’m so fucking scared for you. They made you this goddamn machine and now they’re making you this goddamn fucking _stoner_ who works at what—a mini mart? You’re so smart, you know? You’re so much better than this. But we took that away, and you get _jack shit_ in return. Fuck me. Fuck!”

Agent Larson shakes, and smokes, and shouts, and whispers. Howell stands still. He is a mountain. She is the weather.

“I know, Agent Larson.”

She turns to him and starts to whisper again, strings of profanity and syllables Howell can’t fully decipher. She pulls at her hair over and over again. He watches the strands fall out onto her army jacket. He opens his mouth to speak. He was trained for combat, not comfort, but he was also trained for any and all situations. Even this.

“I wanted to be here. If this is where I’m needed, then I’ll be here. I’ll fight whoever you want me to fight, and I’ll kill whoever you want me to kill. I know my mission. My allegiance is to the Ultra Program. I will always be loyal to you, Agent—“

“Shut the fuck up, Mike.”

Howell closes his mouth. He knows better than to continue the recitations.

“I’m sorry for any pain this causes you, even if you don’t remember why. I’m going to look after you, and you’re going to be so fucking happy, okay? Just let me help you, and everything will be fine.”

“Everything will be fine.” Howell repeats, and Agent Larson pulls the cigarette from her lips with a sardonic smile. She places a hand on the side of Howell’s face, and Howell notices the warmth. He notices the cold for the first time too. He notices the light mist surrounding them.

“Chariot progressive, listen.” She starts, voice breaking and fingers shivering. Howell rests his hand over hers to keep it still. He is nothing if not useful.

Agent Larson breathes in deep, lungs rattling from the chill. “Beta minor leads the pack. You are sailed to release.”

 _Agent Howell is dead,_ he registers. _Agent Howell is dead._

It takes a moment to remember what he is now. Then the story settles into place, his posture begins to fall, and the goose bumps rise steadily on his arms.

“ _Phoebe_?” His voice is quiet, almost squeaky. It probably has something to do with standing outside with his girlfriend so late instead of heading home to bury under an afghan and eat mini marshmallows by the handful. “Is there a reason you want to hang around or…? I could get more marshmallows?”

Phoebe shakes her head, eyes as red as her hair. Mike holds her hand closer to his face, offers her a serene smile. “You started the ganja without me, huh?”

Phoebe doesn’t laugh like Mike expects. She looks regretful, and Mike instantly bites his lip.

“It’s okay, babe. I was just teasing.”

She nods silently, but Mike can read her face. _I know, babe._

“Want to head home? Warm bath? Watch some Iron Chef?”

Phoebe stares through him, and Mike knows she must be riding high right now. Maybe he should make the executive decisions for the time being. But then she hands him her cigarette, and Mike takes a drag while she comes to a decision.

Her first words to him are like a warm hug, like pure delight and comfort. He's felt this way since the day they met.

She rubs her nose fiercely and meets his eyes with a familiar stubbornness.

“Smoke me out first.”


End file.
